Chapter Text
Pharos Project, Earth
The massive radio antennae continued its slow turn upward, past 60 degrees, on its way to 90. But it was all right, the Master told himself. The Doctor was just playing his usual death-defying game, drawing it out a bit longer than usual this time. He’d be back safely in a moment, the universe rescued, ready to play the hero of the hour with his ego puffed up even bigger than usual. The Master tried to think of something suitably scathing to say on his return, to keep him from being too insufferable about it.
Then the Doctor lost his grip on the antennae framework. The Master took an involuntary step forward, a cry of warning locked in his throat. The Doctor caught himself at the edge of a metal strut, hanging from his arms thirty feet above the ground.
The Doctor strained to pull himself up and fell back. For a moment his eyes met the Master’s as the Master stood frozen, staring in shock. Then the Doctor let go, and fell.
“No!” the Master’s paralysis broke, and he lurched forward just as the Doctor hit the ground with a sickening crunch.
But he was all right. He had to be all right. It had been a bad fall, yes, but he’d survived worse. The Master had subjected him to much worse, and he’d been fine. The Doctor – especially this Doctor – was nigh on invincible. It was impossible, inconceivable that he might die now, when the Master hadn’t even been trying . . .
The Master’s mental litany of reassurances stuttered to a halt as the Doctor’s body shifted into the first stages of regeneration. His form blurred, changed, and the Master had to look away, shutting his eyes against the sting of tears. It wasn’t fair. He’d barely begun to know this Doctor; for most of the time he’d occupied this body the Master had been trapped in his own last, dying shell. And now, when he finally had strong, vital, living, feeling flesh of his own, when they were equals again, the Doctor was . . .
Was . . .
Well.
The Master blinked, staring down at the Doctor’s new form as he lay stretched upon the grass. Slender, with pale skin and hair and gentle, almost delicate features, this Doctor was nearly drowning in the oversized coat and scarf of his previous body.
He sat up a little, looking about himself dazedly. His companions seemed afraid to touch him. The Master knew how they felt. There was something vulnerable, almost fragile, about this Doctor that had been entirely lacking in his previous self. That Doctor had been so strong, with a strength that simply overpowered anyone around him into submission. It had been all the Master could do to hold ground against him. This Doctor, now, the Master looked at this newborn Doctor and . . .
Oh.
Oh my.
It seemed this Trakenite body was a bit more . . . well, more than the Master had had in a very long time.
He took a step back and closed the control room door. He needed to get to his TARDIS. He needed space, and time to think, to regroup and to plan. Yes. What he needed, right now, was a good, long, hard, plan.
*~*~*
There had been a time when the Master had wanted nothing more than to drape the Doctor, his Doctor, in robes of ruling crimson and crown him with all the precious stones of Gallifrey. He’d longed to build him a throne at the very summit of the Citadel and lay the universe at his feet. Before it had all gone so wrong between them, and even afterward, the Master’s greatest desire had been lead the whole of creation in worship of his Doctor.
Building him a planet, the Master figured, was a good first step.
And Castrovalva was a wonderful planet. Peaceful, with just enough mystery worked into its dimensionally transcendent folds to keep the Doctor’s attention thoroughly engaged. The Doctor would be able to rest here, and heal, and recover. The Master had prepared everything, even going so far as to remember to provide for his pets. Really, nothing could go wrong.
The Master was therefore utterly dumbfounded when the first stage of his plan went off without a hitch, and he found himself in possession of not only the Doctor’s companions and the Doctor’s TARDIS, but in fact of the living, breathing Doctor himself, currently sleeping in a room just 13.4 meters from the Master’s own bedchamber.
The combination of those three thoughts, Doctor, sleeping, and bedchamber made the Master have to sit down for a moment on the edge of his own bedspread, feeling lightheaded.
The thing was . . . well, the thing was, this Doctor was barely twelve hours into his regeneration. He was still woozy, and weak, and hardly himself. He scarcely knew who he himself was. It would be hardly gentlemanly for the Master to take advantage of him in his weakened state.
The Master thought about that, chewing at the edge of his thumbnail. He’d killed planets in his time, had in fact been indirectly responsible for the destruction of a third of the universe quite recently, but there were some things he’d never sink to. Molesting his best enemy while he was incapacitated by regeneration sickness was right at the top of the list.
Even if his best enemy was unlikely to remember anything that happened to him in the next 24 hours or so, and was wearing the prettiest form he’d had in 600 years, and was sleeping in a bedchamber only a few dozen feet away.
The Master breathed out shakily. So. That was settled. He was a Time Lord, even if he was currently wearing the body of a much more . . . biologically driven species. His will, though, was iron-clad. His mind was his own, and if he decided this body would not give in to its baser impulses then it would not.
Therefore there was no harm in checking to make sure the Doctor was all right, was there?
The Master was on his feet and out of his room almost before he’d finished the thought. He made it halfway down the corridor to the Doctor’s chamber before he stopped. No, no, no, this was all wrong. Completely wrong. What was he thinking?
He turned around and walked back to his room. Closing the door behind him, he stood staring at his own empty bed, with its tasteful drapes and neat bedside table and complete absence of sleeping Doctor.
Was he really thinking about doing this? Was he really that low? He was the Master. He was a Time Lord. He was better than this, wasn’t he?
He’d waited six hundred years to have the Doctor this close. Six hundred years. And he knew, deep in his gut he knew the Doctor would never stay. As perfect as this world was, the Doctor would never stay here with him. Tonight was all they had.
“I won’t do anything he doesn’t want,” he said aloud. His single heart was pounding in his chest. “If he asks me to stop, I will.”
As if the Doctor were in any state to know what he wanted. As if he were capable, now, of asking for so much as a drink of water.
“Fuck,” the Master said. His plan had been perfect. Everything was perfect. He lay down on his bed and put an arm over his eyes. “Fuck.”